The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(87)

Stephen hovered, shifting back and forth on his feet. There was not a prouder, angrier boy in all the Dials than the one beyond her shoulder. And yet . . . he wanted to join her. The moment she invited him over, however, he’d bolt like one of Gertrude’s skittish cats. Reggie fished her notepad and pencil from the basket. With the tip of his scuffed boot, Stephen kicked a rock at her feet. The pebble grazed the hem of her skirts. She opened her book and flipped through the pages. “Generally, if you wish for a person’s attention, you say their name.” Not even glancing up, Reggie held one of the stones aloft. “You do not kick things at them.”

“Got it,” he mumbled. He kicked another pebble; this time the well-aimed tip of his shoe sent the projectile flying in the opposite direction. “It’s all your fault.” His lower lip trembled.

“What?”

“Gert could’ve married herself a duke, and you came along and ruined it.”

Her stomach sank. He knew. “Your sister would have never been happy . . . or safe with him.”

“But he’s more powerful than any lord in London, and you angered him and now Broderick.”

She went absolutely motionless. “What?”

“’e beat him up. Real good, too. Might’ve broken ’is nose.”

Reggie’s mouth moved but the words ceased coming. What? Her thoughts ran together. He’d . . . beaten Oliver? “Why, why did you do that?” she whispered, dropping her face into her hands. It was an act that would never go unpunished, and Broderick, who craved respectability above all else, had raised the ire of a duke . . . for her.

Stephen sat next to her. “You all right?” he asked hesitantly.

No. “Yes.”

“Did he . . .” His words trailed off, and she glanced over. “Did he hurt you?”

Reggie stared ahead. A breeze dusted the Serpentine, sending a small ripple across that otherwise placid surface. “He did.”

Stephen said nothing for a long while and then cleared his throat. “I don’t really hate you, you know.”

It was a significant admission from a boy who hated everyone.

“And I don’t think you’re a miserable little bugger.” She paused. “All the time.” She softened that by ruffling the top of his head.

Stephen ducked away from that show of affection and adjusted his cap.

Her heart pulled. How different he would have been—how less fearful, more nurtured—had he found himself the cherished boy of a marquess. While his gaze was directed out at the swans, she studied him. How very different he’d been from her own brothers. Who had Cameron and Quint become in the years since she’d last seen them? Her throat worked. They’d be grown men now.

Stephen nudged her with his elbow. “What?”

She drew a breath. “Nothing.” Reggie retrained her energies on the music notes she’d already put to page.

“They were going to have a meeting.”

She furrowed her brow.

“Ophelia called it. They were coming over and didn’t want me around.”

The little boy stole a glance around and then spoke in a hushed whisper that she strained to detect. “Do ya think it’s about ’im? My . . . my . . .” He shook his head, unable to force the remainder of that sentence out.

His father.

The man who sought to destroy Broderick and everything he’d built . . .

The man who was the reason Broderick prepared for his eventual hanging.

A lone warbler gave a mournful cry. “I don’t know what it’s about,” she confessed. “I’m not afforded the same privileges I once enjoyed.”

Stephen dropped his chin atop his knees and rubbed back and forth.

They settled into an easy silence, with Reggie resuming her work on the first musical arrangement for her eventual hall.

Stephen nudged her foot with the tip of his boot.

She stared over questioningly.

“Do ya want ta play with the racket and balls?”

For this boy, who cursed like a sailor and still thieved for his own amusement, there were so few glimpses of that innocence. Not allowing him an opportunity to change his mind, she fetched the set from her basket. “Here,” she said, thrusting over one of the rackets.

“Ya ever play this before?” he called over as they got themselves into position.

She gestured for him to move back. “Oh, quite often.” I won again, Regina . . . Can we play another . . . ? A wistful smile hovered on her lips.

He volleyed the first shot. “With who?”

The ball sailed past her racket and hit her in the knees.

“What?” she blurted.

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Who did you play with?”

“I . . .”

The approaching echo of a horse’s hooves saved her from answering. Together they stared off into the distance, squinting as the rider drew closer. There was something familiar about that powerful mount. Shielding his eyes with his racket, Stephen moved his other hand to the dagger at his waist in a gesture of self-defense ingrained into all who lived in the Dials. Atop a monstrous black mount, a gentleman raced at a reckless pace, tearing up the grass as he went.

“Bloody nobs,” Stephen spat, releasing the hold he had on his weapon. “They think”—he faltered, his voice fading to a whisper—“the world is their due.”